


Maybe the real husband was the geese we found along the way.

by IceBreeze



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Emet-Selch is turned into a goose, Ardbert is not present in the fic but he is mentioned alot, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Nonbinary Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), POV Second Person, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Pre-Relationship, idk i'm just here crying over fictional characters whilst i process through crack fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceBreeze/pseuds/IceBreeze
Summary: “We are sorry that it came to this, my friend,” Alphinaud said. “But it was important that you didn’t try to flee this conversation, and this was the only solution we could think of.”“I will have you know that I have never fled anything in my life.”Thancred, who was leaning against the wall like he always did these days, scoffed. “What about last week, when Ryne asked you about how the cracks in your soul were healed and you jumped off of a cliff because you couldn’t figure out how to change the topic?”“Or three days ago,” Alisaie said, “in Il Mheg, when Alphinaud brought up Emet-Selch and you threw a smoke bomb before swimming underwater and stayed there for hours because it was the only place he couldn’t follow?”“Or indeed, earlier this day,” Urianger said, “when thou didst respond to mine inquiry as to thine mental wellbeing by throwing thineself from the balcony of thine own suite.”The Warrior of Light, esteemed hero and stealer of pants, is not coping. In the middle of an attempt to escape concerned friends, they find a goose.Somehow, this helps.
Relationships: Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Scions of the Seventh Dawn & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Maybe the real husband was the geese we found along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> this game hurts me, so i write goose fic to cope. I have yet to play the patches so this is no doubt going to ignore whatever the fuck you learn in them, lore or otherwise.

Grief is not an unfamiliar emotion to you. You have lost people before, and you will lose them again, and then one day there will be nothing left to lose. You know what it feels like, to watch the life fade from someone’s eyes, to look at someone and know that this is the last time you will ever see them. To know that they were there in your life and now they are not. For you, for a hero, to love is to lose. It is stare mortality in the face and know that as long as you yet breathe, as long as you can still move forwards, there will be someone you have to leave behind.

You are a Hero, a survivor, and that means you will mourn until the day you yourself become someone to be mourned.

So no, losing someone you care about isn’t unfamiliar, nor is the fact that you were the one to kill them, nor is losing multiple people at once. It is not new, it is not something you are unused to, so there really isn’t anything big about it. Emet-Selch and Ardbert are gone, you are grieving, and the world continues on. It is fine. Everything is fine.

You are fine.

It’s business as usual, really: someone dies, you slap a fake smile on your face, pick up your knives, and keep fucking moving. So what if you just killed someone you considered a friend, inspite of everything, inspite of all he had done and all that stood between you? So what if you lost the biggest source of comfort you’ve had since you arrived on the first? So what if you had narrowly avoided dying yourself and you felt worn down, worn thin? There were battles to be fought, things to do, people to help. There is no rest for the wicked, but there is no rest for heroes either, and the world has always wanted you to be a hero before anything else.

Is it healthy? No. But it works, and so you will continue to use it until either it stops working or you die- whichever comes second.

Unfortunately, not everyone got the memo, which is why you find yourself here, tied to a chair in the Ocular with the Scions clustered around you, all looking like they were about to deliver a death sentence. The tension in the room couldn’t be cut with a blade of light, and you might have been concerned if not for the fact that you were just straight up out of fucks to give at this point.

“Were the ropes really necessary?” you asked, tugging at them to test the give. “Like what do you think I’m going to do, break something? I’m hurt guys, I’m really hurt.”

Technically they were the ones hurt, as it had taken the combined efforts of Thancred, G’raha Tia and Urianger to hold you still so the others could tie you up. G’raha Tia had fled immediately after the bindings had been completed, which was probably wise; you did break his nose, and if you’d kicked even slightly harder then you might have broken him in general. You’d have to apologise for that, later.

Or maybe not. After all the headaches he gave you, a broken nose is a very reasonable recompense.

Still, this is all rather excessive, if anyone were to ask you. If they wanted to talk to you, then all they had to do was ask!

“We are sorry that it came to this, my friend,” Alphinaud said, looking sheepish. Considering that he’d put a sleep spell on you for a few minutes there, you think he could stand to look more so. You thought you’d raised him better than that. “But it was important that you didn’t try to flee this conversation, and this was the only solution we could think of.”

“Hey, I have never fled anything in my life!”

Thancred, who was leaning against the wall like he always did these days, scoffed. “What about last week, when Ryne asked you about how the cracks in your soul were healed and you jumped off of a cliff because you couldn’t figure out how to change the topic?”

“Or three days ago,” Alisaie said, “in Il Mheg, when Alphinaud brought up Emet-Selch and you threw a smoke bomb before swimming underwater and stayed there for hours because it was the only place he couldn’t follow?”

“Or indeed, earlier this day,” Urianger said, “when thou didst respond to mine inquiry as to thine mental wellbeing by throwing thineself from the balcony of thine own suite.”

“Or-“

“Okay, okay, I get it. Sheesh, just set me on fire why don’t you.” Though, honestly speaking, that wasn’t sounding like such a bad prospect right now. “Well go on then, you have me stuck here. Say what it is you want to say.”

The Scions exchanged looks, a very pointed argument happening without a single word exchanged, which was vaguely concerning when you were the reason said argument was happening. It wasn’t until Ryne was nudged forward, however, that you actively started feeling alarmed. They always used her as a spokesperson when it was something that would get your hackles rising, the manipulative shits. She was just a baby, and even if it was a conversation that might lead to you trying to strangle someone, you wouldn’t lash out at a baby.

“We, uh- we were concerned for you,” she said. “For your health, I mean.”

“Well I hate to disappoint you, but I’m perfectly healthy. Not even remotely dying anymore.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Thancred said, rolling his eyes. “You know what we’re referring to. You’ve been falling apart since the final battle against the Ascian, and anytime we try to help you turn away.”

Suddenly, getting out of these ropes seems alot more urgent. You can’t reach any of your knives, but you still have access to your aether. Maybe you could just burn them? That’d ben nice. Life would be a lot simpler if you could just set fire to all your problems.

“You’ve had a difficult few months,” Y’shtola said. “You need to rest. Take time to grieve. Take time for yourself for once, rather than living like you’re going to die young.”

“We care about you,” Alphinaud said, “so let us help you. Talk to us about how you feel, rather than suffering alone.”

“Hmm,” you say, “Hmmmmmmm.” And then the ropes binding you burst into flames, and you are free. There are burns on your arms and your tail is a little singed, but you are free, and that’s what matters.

The Scions don’t look as pleased at this development as you are, but you suppose that’s to be expected. Not everyone can share your appreciation for the avoiding your problems.

“I will keep all my emotions right here,” you say, patting your chest, “And then I’ll die.”

And with that, you teleport somewhere far, far away, where hopefully no-one will find you.

(In the Ocular, the Scions stand staring at the chair that once held you captive, little more than ash left to signal that the ropes were there at all. They are quiet, the kind of thoughtful silence of people who had planned very carefully to do something only to have said plan be ruined by a stubborn Miq’ote.

“I told you we should have used chains,” Alisaie said, eventually, and everyone had to concede that yes, she is right. Fools they were, to think they could hold the Warrior of Light with mere ropes.

Fools, the lot of them).

You find yourself in the ruins of Amaurot, in this illusory city where memories of the dead walk the streets, a fragmented reflection of what once was and what the Ascians fight so hard for. The city that Emet-Selch buried himself in, hidden away from all that was light, and all that was alive. It is a sad place, haunted by shadows of a past that nobody remembers, and yet, something about it comforts you. Here, at the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by towering buildings and giants who think you a child, your mind quiets, your heartbeat settles. Here, in the place where you killed one friend and lost another, you feel as close to peaceful as you can get now, in this life where your ribs are lined by thorns and your ribs crack under the weight of burdens too heavy to bear.

Here, alone in the world with only your thoughts and the dead, you can hear, feel, think, and draw the edges of yourself back together.

If asked, you wouldn’t be able to explain why this place settles you so. Maybe it’s because it existed as a hollow comfort to a man who’d spent thousands of years in despair. Maybe it’s because you can see glimpses of the glory that once was. Maybe it’s because down here there is no need to be the Hero, to play the role; there is no need to keep yourself together.

Maybe it’s because it’s all you have left of him.

“He was right,” you say, ever so quiet; even with no-one around to hear a secret shared is a secret lost. “I do like it.”

You sit up on a rooftop of what was once a block of apartments, looking down at it all. Below, the shades live out their final days, the magic keeping them tethered here still lingering even with Emet-Selch no longer around to maintain it. They look so small like this, distant. Insignificant. The buildings are all tall, and this one is no exception, the ground but a distant memory. Your legs dangle over the edge, precarious, a caged bird pining for flight.

“Who fights, who falls, who flies,” you murmur. Shift your weight, just a little bit, leaning forward just enough to test it. Just enough to feel the adrenaline in your veins; to feel something, anything.

Just enough to remind you that you are alive.

And then you hear something. A sound, accompanied the patter of small movement against the ground, of quiet breathing from something small, something alive. A sound that is so at odds with the scenery, with the weight in the air, that it is almost bizarre in its existence. A sound that has you shoving yourself back from the edge so you have move to turn, hands flying to the knives at your waist, and that sound is this: a honk. A singular, bleeting honk that echoes through the streets, resounding in your ears like that start of a bad joke. A honk. And there, standing on the rooftop in front of you, is a goose. A real, living goose, with its neck tilted to the side and its dark eyes studying you like a picture. A goose, with dark feathers fading into white at the edges, looking at you as if you are the strange thing to see at the bottom of the ocean in a city of the dead.

A fucking goose.

“Huh,” you say, “weird.”

The goose huffs, wings shuffling pointedly before it pads its way across the roof to you. You have the distinct feeling that it’s judging you with every fibre of its feathery being, which is probably fair. If you were a goose who lived at the bottom of the ocean, you’d probably judge people who stated the obvious too. There are weirder things in the world (Hildibrands entire existence for one), but it’s definitely up there on the list.

(Someday you’ll end up on someone’s list of ‘the world’s weirdest things’ and it’ll be your proudest achievement).

It sits next to you, pressed up against your leg, and then apparently changes its mind as it moves to sit on your lap instead. Even through your armour you can feel the weight of it, solid and warm and real, and you wonder if this too is a remnant of Emet-Selch’s creation. It’s the only reasonable explanation you can think of- at least the only one that doesn’t involve Titania, a fish, and a crate of feathers- but you can’t figure out why he’d create a goose of all things.

Hesitant, you reach out, and when the goose merely looks at you without inflection, you start to stroke its feathers. They’re soft to the touch, soft enough to put Ishgardian silk to shame, and you find yourself smiling for a moment, then two.

“Did you get left behind too, little guy?” You’re not expecting an answer and the goose doesn’t give you one either, simply lowering its head so it’s curled up against you. “Guess that makes us the same. Though you probably have more of a right to be upset than I do, since he was the one who created you. Or found you.” And then, pausing, “Or gave birth to you, but somehow I don’t think ‘and in the beginning, there were geese’ is the answer.”

Not that you’d get answers, anyway. He’s gone, and nothing short of a miracle is going to change that.

The goose honks, its head tilted to the side as it looks up at you, and you smile back down at it, softer than before. “It’s silly, isn’t it? We were enemies- I knew that from the start. I knew that the only way this would end was with one of us dead, and that thinking otherwise was naïve of me. And yet, when it actually happened, when it was done and he was gone, it hurt. It hurt, and he was dead, and Ardbert was gone, and all I could think was that I wish we had more time. That it hadn’t had to be like this.”

And then, sighing. “Of course, he’d probably laugh to see me thinking of this. Insult me too- ‘What a disappointment you turned out to be,’ and all that.” You’re quiet for a moment, two, three. “I miss him, inspite of it all. Inspite of what a fucking idiot that makes me. Miss him as much as I miss Ardbert, who was apparently my fucking soulmate.”

The goose is watching your face quietly, sitting very still in your arms. It’s listening to you, more carefully than some people you know do. Perhaps, in an earlier timeline, before you were dubbed the Warrior of Light and thrust into the role of a Hero, you might have felt silly about talking to a goose. Perhaps you might have felt like it was sacrificing what little dignity you have left, to be baring your heart to this bird that had been created by you fated enemy. Perhaps you might have felt embarrassed.

But that was a different you, and as it stands, life is a mess. Life is hard, and being a Hero is harder, and you gave up on embarrassment around the same time you gave up on giving a shit. So you talk to the goose far more openly than you would ever talk to a person, and you let yourself breathe. You let yourself feel.

Eventually, the sky far above you is beginning to darken and your legs are starting to hurt from staying still, you say, “I should probably give you a name, huh,” and if geese could roll their eyes then that’s what this one would be doing.

You think for a moment, then two, then three, and then, “What about MoonMoon?”

The goose, in a very apt conveyance of its feelings about this name, stretches its neck to bite the unarmoured part of your arm. It hurts, though not enough to be concerning, and when it lets go to hiss at you, you beam back.

“MoonMoon it is, then!”

(Moonmoon bites you again when you confirm his gender, feathers puffing up with all the indignation of an angry Prince, and by that point you love the little asshole with everything you have to give).

It takes a bit of trial and error, but eventually you’re able to figure out a way to secure MoonMoon to your mount. He settles into it with relatively little fuss, only hissing at you when you attempt to wrap him in one of your cleaner scarves. You’re not sure if it was the pattern that offended him or the smell, even if you don’t think it smelled that bad. Can geese even smell? You’re not sure. Neither is the author.

And so, you had a plus one on your adventures. Not that you could really call them adventures, considering it mostly consisted of you picking up whatever little tasks you could find as you wandered, and if there were no tasks then you would just pick fights with the local wildlife. It’s not glamorous, nor is it particularly exciting, but it keeps you busy; it keeps you moving. It keeps you from flinching every time you see black robes or a finger snap, or from looking around in search a ghost that is no longer there.

It keeps you from having time to consider just how much life fucking sucks.

MoonMoon doesn’t seem particularly impressed with your efforts, but he doesn’t seem impressed with anything else either. You think he’s just in a perpetual state of boredom, judging you every step of the way. There’s probably something poetic about that, you think. Of _course_ a bird created by Emet-Selch would be some shade of bastard. If geese could smirk at you whilst monologuing dramatically then the resemblance would be uncanny.

(You wonder what that says about you, that it only makes you miss him more).

“If you’re fed up after ten days of this, then think of how Ardbert must have felt,” you say, after a particularly eventful fight where you punched a sentient tree in the face. It had not been your smartest plan, you admit, but you’ll also be the first to admit that you have never planned anything in your life ever. You just kinda do things and hope they’ll work out, and then if they don’t you turn to other people to tell you what to do. Fortunately, those three weeks you spent training to be a monk came in handy, so you did not end up with a broken hand and a very angry tree, but it was a close thing. “He had to deal with it for over a year of me being the only living creature he could interact with.”

MoonMoon, who had pecked at your arm until you finally gave in and bandaged your hand, hissed as if he was insulted that you would dare imply someone had it worse than him.

“No, really, that guy was a fucking saint. He sat through so many hours of fetch quests and even dealt with my paranoid rants about how I thought a bird was stalking me. 69/10, would be haunted by again.” And then, quieter, your shoulders slumping, “Course, now he’s fucking absorbed into my soul, so I’m never going to see him again. Don’t even have anything to remember him by, not like with Emet-Selch. Not like with Haurchefant.”

And then, a lump in your throat, “He was my best friend.”

You sit there, in the middle of a forest with only a goose for company, and wonder if it would help if you cried. Wonder how long it has been since you last cried, anyway. Was it after the Vault? Or was it when Minfilia went to the First? Was it earlier, on the night of the banquet of doom? Or was it after Alisaie fell, leaving you alone in the middle of a war?

How long has it been, since you had the luxury of dealing with your emotions in a healthy way rather than pushing them down until they cease to matter?

You don’t know. You don’t know if you want to know, either.

MoonMoon ruffles his feathers almost absently, before leaning down to nip at your uninjured hand. It’s gentle, just enough to get your attention, and when you look down at him, he hops up onto your lap and curls against you in the goose equivalent of a hug.

“Are you comforting me?” you ask, and when MoonMoon huffs, pressing his head against your arm, you feel something shift inside you. A crack, a fracture, a dam being opened up after years of drought. You feel something well over, moved by this act of kindness from a fucking bird, from a goose that probably doesn’t even know what you’re talking about anyway.

And so, sitting there amidst the trees of the Rak’tika Greatwood, petting a goose with trembling hands, you cry, cry, _cry._ You cry all the tears you were unable to shed before, for all the things you won’t be able to cry for in the future, and all through it MoonMoon sits with you, a quiet comfort.

You cry, and when you’re finished you feel better than you have in months.

It takes three weeks for the Scions to hunt you down. Three weeks since you fled their poorly executed intervention, three weeks spent wandering the First with only your mount, your weapons, and your goose. Three weeks of actively trying to avoid being found, and they corner you in the fields of Kholusia. It was your mistake, you suppose; Alphinaud’s network is no joke, and its spread across Kholusia and Eulmore so firmly that you’d have better luck avoiding a pack of bloodhounds.

It was only a matter of time before someone found you, really. You just wish they hadn’t sent the twins. The fact that you have a soft spot for them the size of Eorzea is no secret, and you’ve admitted, on more than one occasion, that they’re like your own children. They’re dear to you, so very much so, and that lands them on the very short list of People You Aren’t Willing to Punch in the Face In Order to Get Out of Something You Don’t Want To Do (or PYAWPITF, for short).

Which is why, when Alisaie yells at you whilst Alphinaud nods at appropriate points, you simply stand very still and pray to the twelve to spare you.

“Do you know how worried we were?!” Alisaie says, voice somewhere in that liminal space between an indoor voice and a yell. “Three weeks, without so much of a word! None of us could find you, and after what happened- after you nearly died-“ and then her voice cracks, and you feel like a terrible human being.

“We worry about you, my friend,” Alphinaud says, quiet. “More than you realise.”

“Ah, fuck,” you say. “I’m sorry, sorry, I just- needed air. A lot of air. In a space where people wouldn’t try to tie me to a chair and make me confront my feelings.”

You hug them, an action to which they surrender without complaint. It still feels odd, the way they’ve grown so much in what feels like so little time. Before they barely came up to your shoulders, but now their heads brush your chin. Soon they’ll be taller than you, and you won’t be able to fit the both of them in your arms like this. They’re growing up, and it makes you feel a little sad.

Your kids are growing up.

After a few minutes, the three of you pulled back. Alisaie sniffed, wiping at her face. “I told them we should have used chains. You wouldn’t have got away then.”

Part of you was concerned about how willing she was to resort to extreme measures in order to make sure you couldn’t run away. The other part of you was proud at how good she was getting at the art of fighting and interrogation.

“What my sister means,” Alphinaud said, even though all present knew she meant exactly what she said, “is that we’re all very apologetic for attempting to force you into something you’re not comfortable with, even if it was something that was objectively for your own good and the intensity with which you avoid it indicates the necessity of such efforts.”

“Urianger said that you are aggressively in denial.” And then, “Well, actually, it was more like ‘Our friend hast suffered grave blows to their heart, and as it doth crack under the weight of their own despair, they cover their eyes and ears to the burdens of their soul,’ but that was too long winded.”

“Hey, no, I know I’m depressed and grieving. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

There are very few people across the space of two worlds that you feel comfortable talking about things like this with. Most of them are dead, and of the ones that are still alive, none of them have the context required to make such a conversation possible without you having to explain so very many things.

And really, if you’re being honest with yourself, Ardbert is the only one you really want to talk to. And that, well. That’s just not possible anymore.

It’s just not possible.

The twins exchange looks, likely gearing up to a whole new telepathic communication thing that leads to some new plan of attack, but before they can do anything, MoonMoon makes his presence known. He’d been standing by your mount for the entirety of this conversation, forgotten and ignored, and no-one dares to ignore his nobility. Honking at the top of his lungs, he flaps his wings and lands on your shoulder, biting at your ear to steady himself. It can’t be the most comfortable of perches, nor is it the most stable, but it is the most dramatic, and if there’s one thing MoonMoon is, it’s dramatic. In another life he would have probably been a theatre enthusiast, waltzing around like everything is a performance and he is the star.

Like creator, like goose, you think, bringing up a hand to make sure he doesn’t fall off your shoulder. The twins had drawn their weapon the moment MoonMoon made a sound, reflexes interpreting it as a threat, and now they were just staring at you with the wide, wide eyes of people who had just seen a Voidsent put some underwear on the top of its head and call itself a dirty rascal.

Honestly, it’s like they’d never seen a bird before.

“This is MoonMoon,” you say. “MoonMoon, say hi to the twins.”

MoonMoon does not say hi to the twins. MoonMoon made a disgruntled goose noise and slapped you in the face with his wing.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship, if friendships involved giving goose and Elezen alike making eachother’s lives misery when they thought you weren’t looking. Alisaie threatened to chargrill MoonMoon once a day. MoonMoon responded by throwing Alisaie’s sword up a tree every night. Alphinaud spent a good three hours attempting to convince you that the goose was in fact a Voidsent and needed to be killed before it could destroy the world. MoonMoon upended your stash of blackloam into Alphinaud’s shoes, in retaliation.

You think Emet-Selch would have approved, if he were around to approve things.

By the time you reach the Crystarium, the twins are five seconds away from attempting to throttle MoonMoon, whilst MoonMoon is as smug as a goose can be. It’s been a trying journey for everyone’s patience, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the petty chaos of it. With all the weight of expectation upon your shoulders you haven’t had much time to just laugh and let loose, to just have a good time. They want you to fight wars and liberate countries and save worlds, not drop fake bird shit on people’s heads or break into an enemy stronghold so you can stick all their furniture to the ceiling.

…actually, now that you think about it, that’s not such a bad idea. It certainly wouldn’t win the war against Garlemald, but it would make you feel better, knowing that the Varis soz Fucknut was having to run around ordering his vaunted soldiers to try and undue your own carefully cultivated sticking charms. Maybe you could even add in a little extra something so that every time he sits on his throne it makes farting noises. Of course, this would require the not insignificant task of infiltrating the Imperial Capital, sneaking into the palace whilst avoiding both Ascian and Garleans alike, all before needing to get out again without anyone spotting you.

It would be a challenge. And really, the only thing you can say to that is, “Challenge accepted.”

Alisaie and MoonMoon look at you in unison, both wearing an expression that could be described as some variation of confused. Alphinaud, as the person who had spent the longest in your company and was thus used to your tendency to go off inside your head only to surface with a seemingly nonsensical statement, merely asked, seemingly unphased, “Will you please elaborate, my friend? What challenge, and why are you accepting it?”

“I’m going to break into the Imperial Palace of Garlemald and stick all their furniture to the ceiling.”

MoonMoon made a quiet noise that was either the goose equivalent of a laugh, or an attempt to get something out of his throat. Alisaie looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be horrified, impressed, or some combination of the two. Alphinaud looked much like he did every time you proposed a hairbrained idea, only this time with extra headache.

“And why do you want to do that?”

“Because why not?” And then, sighing dreamily, “Maybe I can even adjust my sticking charms so that when they attempt to de-ceiling the furniture it’ll insult Emperor Fucknut.”

Alphinaud sighed. MoonMoon made that noise again. Maybe he had some kind of bird sickness. You should ask Y’shtola to look at him, when you get the chance.

“I still cannot believe you called him that to his face,” Alisaie said, shaking her head. “During a diplomatic meeting, as well!”

Alphinaud, who had tried so very hard to train you in the arts of political manoeuvring, looked like you’d just shat in the middle of the road and attempted to shove his face in it. Really, you don’t know what he was expecting; he knows you have no talent for diplomacy or word games. You kill what you’re pointed at and nod stoically when people talk at you, but if they expect you to be useful in the realm of words then they’ve got another thing coming.

“He was a dick, who was being a dick, who looked like a dick. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know- maybe not insult the Emperor of Garlemald during a peace meeting?”

You scoff, adjusting your grip on MoonMoon. “Please, he had no intention of fostering peace and he made no secret of that. Which is why I’m going to stick his throne to the ceiling and make it so every time he sits on it, fart noises play.” And then, “Oh look, it’s G’raha Tia.”

It was. Apparently your return was momentous enough that the Crystal Exarch himself had come to greet you, cowl lowered and staff nowhere to be found. His eyes were warm, his smile warmer, and you found yourself softening. It’s hard to hold onto anger at someone who so openly cares for you, at someone who spent a hundred years determined to die for you, and you’ve never been a particularly spiteful person to begin with. Petty? Sure. But spite? No.

(“You’ve a big heart,” Ardbert had said, when you realised your kokoro was going doki-doki for a man who was your enemy. “And that can be as much a blessing as a curse.”

He didn’t call you a fool. You didn’t call him a hypocrite. He simply sat with you, as you were in freefall with no idea when you’d hit the ground.

He was the only person you ever told, and it is a secret he held to the very end).

So when G’raha Tia reaches you, you say, “I’m sorry for breaking your nose.”

He blinks, off footed for a moment by the statement, and then his Spoken hand comes to absently touch the nose in question. There’s no trace of the damage, which is good, but also means you may end up with a particularly angry Lyna at your door sometime in the near future. But as quick as it dropped, his smile is up again once more, as if he cannot help but be happy around you. As if your mere existence is enough to make him smile.

Sometimes you think your life would have been so much easier if you’d fallen in love with him instead, but alas. Instead you went for the Ascian.

“There is no need for apologies, my friend,” G’raha Tia says. “It was a reasonable response, considering the situation. I’m merely glad to see you returned hale and whole.”

“No thanks to you,” Alisaie mutters, only for Alphinaud to elbow her.

“Well, here I am, not dead and everything,” you say. “I even found a new friend!”

MoonMoon honks. G’raha Tia, who was now staring at the goose in your arms with the bewilderment of someone unsure as to what they were seeing, blinked.

“Yes,” Alphinaud said, “It is a goose, it is real, and inexplicably, the Warrior has decided that it is now they’re dear friend.”

“His name is MoonMoon,” you agree. “And if anything happens to him I’m going to kill everyone in this plaza and then myself.”

G’raha Tia.exe has stop working, for he merely stands there, staring at MoonMoon like he’s never seen a goose before. And maybe he hasn’t! For all you know, geese could be an endangered species on the First, and they haven’t been seen in hundreds of years. Maybe G’raha Tia is simply afraid of them, since feathers are pretty much the antithesis of rocks.

Maybe he pissed his pants, and is trying to figure out how to beat a hasty retreat.

You’re about to ask him if he is okay, when he says, “My friend, are you aware that that goose is an Ascian?”

There is silence, Alisaie and Alphinaud whipping around to stare at the goose with horror. G’raha Tia’s staff appears in his hand, body tensed as if he’d waiting for your fowl friend to suddenly try and slaughter everyone. MoonMoon fluffs his feathers in your arms, apparently unbothered by the scrutiny. You shift, awkwardly.

“Um.” And then, holding onto MoonMoon tighter, “I mean, I did find him in Amaurot, so I assumed that he was some creation left behind by Emet-Selch. But he’s not dangerous! He’s just a little guy.”

“You misunderstand,” and G’raha Tia is speaking slowly, carefully, as if delivering bad news. “I mean the goose _is_ an Ascian.”

What.

“What?” And then, again, with more feeling, _“What?”_

You looked down at MoonMoon, who met your gaze with what was almost a shrug. ‘what can you do,’ he seemed to be saying, with all that intelligence you had thought just was because he was a magical creation. That would have been too simple, though, and nothing in your life can ever be simple.

Nothing can be simple, let alone death. Let alone grieving someone who should be gone, and yet had apparently spent the past few weeks at your side in the form of a bird. A bird to whom you shared your every thought and feeling, not really expecting to be understood; not really expecting to be perceived.

Nothing can ever be simple in your life, and this is no exception.

“Emet-Selch?” you say, voice trembling in time with the beat of your heart. 

The goose, more commonly known as Emet, honks, either uncaring of being discovered, or because whatever caused this absurd form of reincarnation has truly turned him into a bird.

And so, we fade to black.


End file.
